


Cruel Summer

by IceTiger3000



Series: From Russia with Love [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet, Bullying, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Children, Embarrassment, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Summer Camp, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 01:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13560246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceTiger3000/pseuds/IceTiger3000
Summary: At Yakov's summer camp 5 years before the Grand Prix Final, what 13-year-old Otabek Altin first noticed about Yuri Plisetsky was his eyes. Unfortunately, Otabek didn't make such a  memorable impression on Yuri.Still fluffy, but more angsty than my usual work.





	Cruel Summer

Otabek Altin stood amongst the small group of young figure skating students. Most of the other boys were beginning to get restless listening to the long, stern lecture on the rules and directions from the two instructors. His shaggy black hair was in need of a trim, and as he listened carefully, his face was set in a serious expression. He was only a couple of inches taller than the other boys in the group, but a few years older. He was thrilled to finally have the opportunity to attend the summer camp run by the famous Russian skating coach, Yakov Feltsman, and his ex-wife, Lilia Baranovskaya—the renowned choreographer and former prima ballerina for the Bolshoi Ballet.

Otabek was originally from Kazakhstan, but he had been training as a competitive figure skater in Russia for the last several years. He had just moved his home rink from Moscow to St. Petersburg, and he was desperate to make a name for himself. At age 13, this was technically his first year in the junior division, but despite his hard work, he still wasn’t skating at the same level as the Russian juniors. When he was accepted to Yakov’s training camp, he was placed in the novice class with the younger boys. Otabek did not mind. He would do whatever it took to succeed.

After Coach Yakov had gone over the camp curriculum in detail, the boys were sent off to the dorms to drop off their bags and to change into their skating clothes. Assembling back at the rink, they sat scattered around on the benches, lacing up their skates. Most of the young boys joked and happily chatted with each other in Russian. Otabek quietly bent down, wrapping the remainder of his long black laces around his skate boots and tying them in a double knot. He switched out his soakers for his teal blue and yellow plastic blade guards. As he looked up, Otabek noticed that the boy on the end of his bench was solemnly checking his gear and not fooling around like the rest of the rowdy boys.

He had heard of this kid. Yuri Plisetsky—even at the age of 10, the novice skater was already well-known for his talent on the ice. Glancing over at the small Russian boy, what Otabek noticed first was his eyes. They were a startling emerald green, with a hard, penetrating expression. Otabek thought that they looked astonishingly like the strong, piercing eyes of a soldier, which seemed out of place on the delicate young boy with his mop of light blond hair.

Three loud claps echoed through the cold air of the rink, and Coach Yakov called out, “Alright, everyone out on the ice!”

Otabek stood up, lost in thought. He felt that he and Yuri were alike. As the boisterous group of boys pushed their way out onto the ice, Otabek distractedly wondered how he could start up a conversation with the aloof Russian skater.

Stepping onto the skating rink, he immediately realized something was wrong. Otabek tried to catch his balance as he skidded on one foot, before he lost control and his feet flew out from under him. He slammed painfully down onto the hard ice. Otabek was both stunned from the hard fall and deeply mortified, his face flushing crimson. He had not taken a fall like that in years. The boys yelled with laughter, pointing at him as he lay helplessly sprawled on the cold ice.

Coach Yakov roared over the noise, “Otabek! What are you doing? Take off your hard guards before stepping onto the ice! Is this your first day skating?”

Looking up ashamed, the only thing Otabek was aware of was the penetrating gaze of Yuri Plisetsky. The small boy was standing on the ice, set a little apart from the noisy group. He was not laughing along with them, but looking disdainfully down at Otabek.

That evening at dinner, Otabek sat alone. The first day of camp had definitely not gone the way he had hoped, but he tried to remain optimistic. He was there to learn as much as he could. Yuri also kept to himself, glaring down at his plate as he ate. The other younger Russian boys laughed together, occasionally directing snide comments toward Otabek. The older boy sighed. He was used to not fitting in with the other skaters here in Russia, but he was not here to make friends, after all. Cleaning up his tray, he headed off to get ready for bed early, hoping lessons would go better tomorrow.

Back in the dorm room, Otabek hurriedly changed into his bedclothes—a black T-shirt and ash grey sweatpants. At the end of the hall, he stood holding his toothbrush in front of the row of white square sinks mounted on the wall in the starkly-tiled bathroom. He contemplated his reflection miserably in the mirror, then sighing, he twisted the handle of the chrome faucet.  The cold water blasted out at full force, soaking his crotch. Otabek looked down at the dark grey wet patch spreading on his pants. Bracing his hands on the ceramic sink, he hung his head, exasperated.

As he stepped back out into the hallway to return to the dorms, Otabek came face to face with Yuri Plisetsky. The small boy said nothing, but his eyes slid down to the wet stain on the front of the older boy’s pants. Otabek was paralyzed with embarrassment, unable to come up with the words to explain. He fled back to the dorms and changed his pants. Wrapping himself tightly in his blanket, he squeezed his eyes shut, humiliated.

The next morning at skating practice was fortunately uneventful. Otabek kept his head down and worked through the exercises Yakov set for them. After lunch, they would have ballet instruction from Lilia Baranovskaya, which he was looking forward to. Most figure skaters learn ballet for conditioning and flexibility, but he had never had the chance to take a dance class before. Learning from someone as prestigious as Lilia would be the perfect introduction.

After lunch, the boys were given a free hour before their ballet lesson. Otabek lay on his bed in the dorms, idly flipping through a book he had brought with him. Outside the window, he could hear birds chirping, but otherwise, the atmosphere was wonderfully quiet and relaxing.

Suddenly, the stillness was broken by ringing shouts and laughter. The other boys in his class burst into the dorm room, waving a pink tulle tutu they had snatched from the girls’ practice room. Otabek’s book went flying as the boys dragged him roughly off the bed. The group jeered as they held his arms down, shoving the tutu down over his head. One of the bigger boys stuck a rhinestone-studded tiara on his head. Another boy roughly held Otabek’s jaw with one hand, smearing pink lipstick messily around his mouth as he thrashed and tried to kick out at the gang who restrained him. The younger boys laughed nastily, calling Otabek _“Printsessa”_ —princess, and saying he was a prima ballerina.

Yakov suddenly burst into the room like an enraged bull, bellowing at the younger boys, who scattered and ran. Otabek threw the tiara and tutu off, breathing heavily and trying to fight back angry tears. Yakov put a soothing hand on the boy’s shoulder.  Looking down at him, he told Otabek to go and get cleaned up before his next lesson. Panting, Otabek raised his head and through his furious, swimming vision, he saw Yuri Plisetsky standing in the doorway. The boy’s sharp green eyes looked back at him impassively.

Lilia stood before the group of boys lined up in front of the ballet barre that ran along the floor-to-ceiling window. Sun streamed in warmly across the wooden floor. The woman’s hands rested on her hips, and her long hair was pulled up into a ponytail, which hung down her back. She looked down at them and intoned harshly, “Today I will be teaching you the fundamentals of classical movement. This will be essential to your training on the ice.”

Over the next hour, they ran through the basics of posture, positions, and movement. Otabek wanted to be anywhere but there. His face still flushed hotly with outrage toward the other boys. Going through the exercises, he scowled fiercely and gritted his teeth, sweat running down his temples. The skaters all stood on pointed toes holding a long stretch, their outstretched leg reaching high in the air, with one arm arched above their heads. Otabek halfheartedly followed along with the movements, struggling to hold his leg up by the ankle.

Lilia snapped at him, “Otabek! What are you so embarrassed about?”

The boy’s cheeks flushed scarlet in indignation. Bracing his hands on his knees, his chest heaving, Otabek caught his breath and then looked up. Yuri Plisetsky moved gracefully through the next motion, skillfully sweeping his leg and arm up into position and holding them with a fierce glare of determination blazing in his eyes.

Otabek looked up at the smaller boy in awe, firmly deciding that he had to find something he could do that the other skaters could not do. That was the only way he could beat them, or else he could never win. He made up his mind in that moment that when he left camp in a couple weeks, he would never do ballet again.

***

Lying on the bed in his dorm room, 16-year-old Yuri Plisetsky looked up from stroking his cat’s soft fur, his piercing gaze locking onto Otabek’s deep brown eyes.

“Really?” he asked, astonished. “All that happened?”

Otabek replied, laughing softly, “Oh yeah.”

Yuri shook his head in amazement. “I don’t remember that!”

Otabek continued, “After that camp I moved around to train—from Russia to the US and then to Canada. For years I did what I could to avoid running into you again. When I saw you in the lobby of the hotel at the Grand Prix Final in Barcelona, I didn’t even have to courage to speak to you. I was certain I would do something stupid, like walk into the door or something. When you called me an asshole, it was all I could do to play it cool.”

Yuri rolled over and grinned up at Otabek, “Yeah… sorry about that. That’s sort of my default with new people.”

“That’s OK,” Otabek smiled softly back at him. “I’m just glad to hear you weren’t thinking of what a huge dork I was the first time we met.”

Yuri laughed, “Well, I didn’t remember any of that, and you’ve gotten a lot cooler since then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please hit the Kudos button and leave a comment—it means so much to us as writers!


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